There were Names There
By Portrait of a Scribe
There were names there. Hundreds, thousands of them, carved into plaques surrounding two great pits in the ground that had been converted into a pair of waterfalls. According to the history books, most of the names were those of civilians.
Captain America swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat. Somewhere to his right, a former Navy officer was singing the national anthem. Later, he knew, they would have a Marine or some other officer from a different branch of the military play Taps on a bugle. It was all part of the ceremony.
And it was all so surreal that he almost could not grasp it all. It was an alien concept that he could have missed something so huge, an attack on his homeland, his hometown, an attack that stole the lives of thousands of civilians, first responders, and military men and women alike. The fact that someone even could launch an attack on mainland America like that in the first place was nearly incomprehensible to Cap, who had always seen his nation as being somewhat invincible. With himself being as damn near invincible as a human came, it was difficult for him to grasp.
But as the ceremonies slowly unwound, he found himself understanding more and more.
As the families and friends, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, fathers, and mothers of victims of the attacks came forth and placed flowers beside the names on the memorial, Cap found tears welling in his eyes.
How could he have missed this? Something so heart-wrenching, something that made his chest ache, something that made him want to cry; how could he have missed this? How could he have slept through the recovery efforts, watching the people of his country pick up the pieces and come back stronger than ever? How could he have been ignorant to the pain and strength of the nation he loved so dearly?
When his turn at the podium came, Cap had to dry his eyes before he walked up to the microphone.
Clearing his throat, he stared blankly down at the speech that had been written for him. The words blurred and swam before his eyes. Finally, he sighed and looked up, scanning the crowd below.
"Citizens of America," he began slowly, his voice choked. He cleared his throat again. "You may know me as a military icon from the second World War. You may know me as one of the Ultimates. You may know me as a nightmare of a drill sergeant, or you may know me as Captain America.
"But today, I'd like to introduce myself to you, not as an icon, not as an avenger, not as an agent of death or justice, but as a man." He took a deep breath, gazing around at all the hundreds of faces below him. "I wasn't awake when the nine-eleven attacks happened. In fact, I was frozen in a block of ice somewhere, about one and a half thousand miles north of where we stand."
He paused again, swallowed.
"But in your faces, I can see exactly what happened that day," he continued slowly. "I can see the horror, the grief and sadness. I can see the tragedy that occurred as fresh as if it was five minutes ago. And I know that the grief of that day may never fade, not until long after the last of those of us who remember is gone.
"But I can also see the strength there." His voice grew stronger. "In your faces, I see the strength of a nation whose people never give up, never surrender. I see the hope that you carry, the hope for a brighter future, whether in this life or the next. I see the determination, the compassion, and the will to carry on. That strength got us through the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, and many other battles. With it, we will continue to keep going, no matter the loss, no matter the hardship."
Cap took a breath, reached up, and wiped his tearing eyes.
"We are a proud, strong nation," he continued, his voice becoming choked yet again. "We are fiercely independent, and we are all, each and every one of us, willing to fight tooth and nail for what we believe in. So let us fight to remember. Let us fight, not to forget, but to honor those who died as they should be honored. Let us fight so that no tragedy like the September eleventh bombings will ever occur again. Let us remain ever vigilant, that terror will never again strike us like a foe in the night. Let us forever stand, sentinels united, against those who wish us ill.
"Let us show the world our strength: the strength of a nation, the strength of every united people within our borders."
He paused, breathed deeply, reached up, and undid the straps of his helmet. A second later, it was cradled beneath his arm, revealing the face of Steve Rogers to the world.
"Let us show the world the strength of every man, woman, and child blessed to call themselves Americans. Because that is what we all are, regardless of color or creed or physical ability. We are America." He lifted his hand to his brow, saluting crisply.
"We are America, and we will never forget."
There were names, there. Names, faces, people. And as each and every one of them gave a round of applause, Steve Rogers stepped off the podium, and became Captain America once more, his face hidden from the world by his helmet. But every name and face there knew that he was just a man. Those names and faces were those of a nation that, despite a crushing tragedy, would never forget, never surrender, and would bounce back from defeat stronger and more united than ever before.
When a Marine bugler began to play Taps a moment later, Captain America wept.
Disclaimer: I don't own Cap.
Written in memory of the September 11th, 2001 bombings. May God rest the souls of the fallen and bless their families.
I would have posted it yesterday, save that by the time I finished it, I was falling asleep at my keyboard and did not manage to upload it. Obviously, this takes place in New York, and I should hope that it's also obvious as to what day it is supposed to be. I couldn't think of a better person to give a speech than Cap, who is an icon of America's strength and military might. (I used Ultimate Cap because he's totally badass, too, and because I know more about him.)
Never Forget. 9/11/01-9/11/11.
-Portrait of a Scribe